


Black Tar, Broken Souls

by CalicoThunder



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Action, Angsty Stuff, Crime and other shit, FAHC Au, GTA AU, Los Santos, M/M, Street Racing AU, definitely sex, guns and cars, kind of pre-FAHC I guess?, oh and sex eventually, what are tags ok im done, you'll see if you read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalicoThunder/pseuds/CalicoThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones, a regular Los Santos mechanic, has the worst luck in the world. </p><p>Shit on top of shit piles up and Michael finds himself street racing for cash, and maybe a little bit for the thrill too- but that all changes with Geoff Ramsey. </p><p>When the crime king of the city catches wind of Michael's career on the blacktop, the mechanic is pulled by the neck into a world of blood, drugs, murder, and betrayal. </p><p>All because he wanted a quick buck.</p><p>Can his innocent and clueless boyfriend or his dying mother help him out of the trap?</p><p>Or will he be stuck forever, like a stray tar stain on the city?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first multi chaptered fic, yay! I hope those of you who read enjoy it, it's an idea I've had in my head for a while now.  
> There's a lot of Grand Theft Auto stuff involved- like cities and car brands and other things- but I think you'll catch on pretty quick if you're unfamiliar with the game's universe.

Michael was having a really bad day.

That's putting it lightly of course, because there's no real word to express just how shitty his day has been.

He woke up to a lovely blaring phone call from his sweet, sweet fiancé, who dumped him over the phone after three years of happy engagement.

_“Lindsay- slow down- what?”_

_“I just don't think we're what we used to be, Michael. I'm sorry."_

_He took a moment to try and wrap his head around it._

_“Do you want a proposal? Is that what this is? We can head to Venturas and get married tonight if that’ll stop this.” His voice was broken._

_Silence._

_“I'm sorry Michael.”_

_Click._

_She hung up._

_The phone shattered against the kitchen sink, shards of glass and plastic flying everywhere._

_Angry tears fell from his eyes like a flood._

_If only I could pay for a damn ring, this wouldn't have happened, he thought._

_He couldn't pay for anything anymore._

Then, halfway through the work day, he got a call on his cell from his sobbing mother, telling him that she had late-stage lung cancer and had a little less than 6 months to live, most likely, with chemo and medication. The oncologist had made sure to deliver the news as straightforward and mechanical as possible, as if he had memorized the lines. To be fair, he probably delivered them like once a week, but that didn't mean he needed to be so fucking _cold_ about it and send his mother into hysterics.

_“Mich-Michael… If I don't get treatment, I'll… I'll be dead in three months, Michael-”_

_“Denise, please- it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you treatment, and we'll figure a way out of this. If other people can fight it, so can you.”_

_There was nothing but quiet crying on the other end of the line._

_“Okay, Michael. But-” she took a deep, shuddering breath- “but how will we pay for it?”_

_Michael cursed the sky and ground, heaven and hell, and whoever created this shithole of a planet. He hadn't even thought about that._

_“I'll think of something, Ma. I will. I have to go. You'll be fine, okay?”_

_“Yes, Michael, okay. You know, there's always your fath-”_

_Click._

_He hung up._

_Gotta pay for anti-cancer shit now, he thought in despair._

_He couldn't pay for anything anymore._

And to top it all off, he arrived at his personal garage later that day to pick up a few things- only to find someone had broken in through the back window and stolen not only his tools, but the large toolbox they were in as well.

_“Son of a bitch!” He yelled, slamming his foot into the side of the dolly. It rolled away towards his motorbike, where it knocked into the tires a little too hard._

_The window that the robber had broken was letting the cold night air in, and even with Michael’s jacket he could feel goosebumps rising on his arms._

_He considered for a moment that even though the asshole took his tools (they were expensive, mind you), his car and motorbike were untouched, along with his work clothes and the few valuables he left there. But still, he needed tools- especially in his line of work- and buying another set was gonna set him back another grand or so._

_Living and working in Los Santos meant this kind of shit was going to happen, he knew, but he honestly never thought it would ever happen to him. In retrospect, he should have barred the windows like the realtor had said when she sold him the place._

_He slouched against the wall, breathing heavily, before sliding down to sit on the floor and running his hands through his hair, the old light in the ceiling flickering on and off._

_I'm gonna have to get money for more tools, he thought gravely._

_He couldn't pay for anything anymore._

But wait, there's fucking more. Just as he and his coworker, one Ryan Haywood, closed the garage where he worked for the evening, the two men received news in the form of an email from corporate telling them that their boss had committed suicide, meaning the branch shop was going to be closing down and Ryan and Michael were gonna be out of a job.

_“I cannot believe this.”_

_“Michael, it's okay. We have experience. Any garage in the city and we can work there, any car and we can fix it.” Ryan placed a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder._

_Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. Ryan had no idea the day he'd had, and no idea the actual severity of the tight spot he was in, but the guy was just trying to help._

_“Yeah, that's true.” He looked up. “It's gonna be weird not working with you, though.”_

_Ryan smiled._

_He was a good, wife and two kids, play fetch with a dog, did his taxes, honey-I'm-home kinda guy. Michael could appreciate that. Purity. Untainted by the city._

_“I'm sure we'll be fine.” Ryan said, and squeezed Michael’s arm before leaving._

Yeah. All that happened in one fucking day. So now, Michael was out of a girlfriend, out of a job, out of the right tools to do said job, and almost out of his last living family member.

He really was on the brink of having nothing.

And _that’s_ how he ended up here.

Money was tight, as usual, but with his relationship and life, and the life of his mother, on the line, he knew it was officially desperate times. So, while laying in his cot in the apartment section of his six car garage that very night, he decided to do something he'd thought about a few times before, but never had the balls to try.

Street Racing.

It’d been happening for years. His neighborhood, Rancho, was infamous for its tight alleys, sharp turns, and the railroad tracks that ran right through the middle.

Every night, as Michael tossed and turned in his garage, he could hear the revving of an engine and the cheering of a wild, borderline bloodthirsty crowd. The whole of south central was a race track for everyone, from gangbangers to robbers to master criminals just looking for fun. They all raced. For money, most of the time, and sometimes ownership of a car or even for their life.

The railroad tracks often served as the arena for some sort of twisted automobile matador-esque challenge that Michael had heard about. Bangers and crackheads on the street talked about it all the time. From what Michael had gathered, it went something like this:

Two cars press against each other, grill to grill, sideways on the double set of tracks. When prompted, both slam the gas at the same time as the train rounds the corner in the distance. The goal is to apply enough force to keep your enemy’s car on the tracks, but not too much to ensure you don't end up there instead. The trains were automated, not controlled by any driver or anything, meaning the loser of the Duel (that's what it was referred to as, Michael applied the capital D in his mind) was killed instantly by the force of the locomotive, his car being totaled as well.

Michael had no intention of taking part in that kind of bloodsport, so here he was.

It wasn't hard to find the race. He got in his car, after baking up this crazy plan, with all the cash he had, and managed to find some Vagos douches over by the Projects, fucking around with cars and harassing women as they walked by.

He rolled down the window.

“Hey!” He shouted, trying not to be intimidated by the handgun protruding from one of the men’s belts.

They looked over at him, slowly turning away from their cars.

“What you want, gringo?” The one without the gun said.

Michael did his best to look and sound like he knew that the fuck he was doing.

“Where's the race tonight? My baby’s itchin’ for asphalt, y’know?” He tapped the outside of the driver’s door as if he was petting the car.

The Vagos looked him and his car up and down before telling him about a meet up in Davis, first place prize of a couple grand. They mentioned they'd be there in their rides- at which Michael gave a wicked smile and said he hoped to see them there.

The one with a gun cracked a joke about Michael only seeing the back license plate of his car, at which they all laughed. Michael drove away to find the spot, thinking he carried himself pretty well there, and hoping he could keep the bullshit up for another few races or so.

 _Just enough to pay off all this shit_ , he thought as he pulled up to the meet.

There were at least seven other cars, all different colors and types. From a green lowrider with a mean-looking Balla at the wheel to a jet black coupe with a shady figure inside behind tinted windows; Michael was beginning to feel a little more confident. The main guy was some asshole with a girl on either arm, sitting on a fancy sports car on the sidewalk. He asked for the entry fee of hundred bucks, which Michael handed over reluctantly (it was like a fifth of all his cash, after all), and Michael brought his car into a designated starting spot. The other cars began to line up around him, and that's when everything began to realize. The adrenaline of high speeds and risky turns thrummed in his veins, pushing against his skin and making him feel pressured- but in a good way. An _exciting_ way. After all, he hadn't done anything like this in years.

He was ready.

In his suped-up Declasse Tampa, a gorgeous matte-black muscle car entitled to him by his uncle on the East Coast, he waited with intensity behind the other cars.

He revved his engine a little, more to get himself pumped up than to show off to the other racers because _wow, this is really happening, I'm driving in a street race and it's gonna be fast and dangerous and my life is at stake._

The other racers revved back, though, and he started a beautiful symphony of pistons and tailpipes moving and spluttering, a noise rising loud enough to drown out Heaven itself.

He spared a quick glance at the scribbled map on his dashboard that he'd received after paying the entry fee.

Starting on Davis Avenue, the track sped down and around South Central, into the airport, and above the Port on the bridge, before ending right back here. One lap, winner gets five thousand dollars.

There was a commotion outside, and Michael was pretty sure he could feel the electricity in the tension.

The main race guy stood up on his classy ride and cupped his hands over his mouth.

“Racers! Are you ready?”

_I was born ready, asshole._

All the Racers gave a quick honk of confirmation, which Michael mimicked half a beat late. A busty Vagos beauty with hair like a Hot Cheeto stood in front of the line of cars, red flags in each hand.

She raised them.

_Oh yeah, just like Jersey._

She brought them down, and the race was on.

________________________________________

To say Michael was exhilarated to cross the finish line would be a staggering understatement- he was happy beyond description. To think that 16 hours ago his world had been turned upside down for the first of four times that day and now he was winning five thousand dollars in a late night street race- he was impossibly happy, and definitely surprised at his luck.

Honestly, he hadn't even really been paying attention to what place he was in. The whole race was spent in a limbo of high speed and burnt rubber, the world around him melting into light and sound as he focused on the road ahead of him. But somehow, despite everything that had happened that day, he crossed the finish line twenty whole seconds before anyone else.

He stopped his car in the middle of the street and shot out, throwing his fists up in the air in victory. He wobbled a bit on his legs- he probably looked stupidly cocky to the other racers as they passed the checkered flag- but he really didn't give a shit.

He _won._

_I forgot what this felt like._

_How_ good _it feels._

He welcomed the sexy woman who'd started the race as she brought over his stacks of cash. He even managed to snag a kiss on the cheek from her as he dumped the cash in his passenger seat, the crowd catcalling and whooping for joy.

They were excited, and for good reason.

A newcomer beat the most notorious racer on the streets, and he didn't even know it yet. Even though a majority of the onlookers lost considerable amounts of cash to wagers, it was excitement and curiosity that fueled them now. They created a winners circle around Michael and his car, taking pictures and videos with smartphones as the redhead smirked and leaned against his ride.

The eighth racer finally crossed the finish line, three minutes after Michael- if that poor guy was racing for someone, like most street racers did, he was gonna get a stern talking to from his boss for losing so badly.

The crowd around Michael cheered until the second place racer exited their car. It was the coupe with the tinted windows, and the driver, who had been completely obscured by dark glass earlier, was now exiting the vehicle.

Michael was in the middle of a conversation with some hot chick from uptown- he was single now, after all- but he stopped himself when he noticed the car and driver.

The crowd seemed to die down as well, already knowing who this guy was.

The second place racer was a little shorter than Michael, with dark messy hair, square glasses, and unkempt stubble. He had a beanie on too, black, like his jacket and jeans. And car. And soul, probably.

He walked up to Michael and squared him up, though he put off no signs of intimidation or hostility.

Michael popped the large collar of his jacket and did the same, crossing his arms and analyzing the guy.

After a moment of tense silence- even the crowd was dead quiet and on edge- the racer held out his hand.

“Ray Narvaez Jr. Glad I get to see the one person who managed beat me.” He said with an odd smile.

Michael slowly shook the other’s hand, and crowd collectively let out a deep exhale.

“Michael Jones. Glad I get to see the asshole who lost to a noob like me.”

Ray snorted.

The crowd must have seen that as some sort of release, a _thank god he laughed it's okay to talk again_ switch or something, because they broke down into chatter and laughter, describing the race with wild gestures.

“Noob? As if. I know a racer when I see one, and you have serious experience. Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?” Ray asked.

Michael looked at Ray, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

He could tell the other man about New Jersey- but he didn't. Shouldn't. No one in this half of the country knew, so why should this guy? Instead, Michael took the opportunity to play innocent and see where that got him.

“I guess I'm a natural? I'm just a mechanic dude, I needed the money and figured I'd give it a shot.” He shrugged at Ray.

Ray narrowed his eyes, calculating, and for a minute Michael thought he was gonna see through his bullshit- but after a second, Ray looked satisfied and nodded.

“Well, you're a fucking amazing natural, then. I was undefeated for six months before tonight.”

Michael rubbed his forehead quickly, unsticking some of his sweaty auburn curls. He couldn't tell if Ray’s words were some kind of elusive threat, or if he was just stating facts.

Either way, this guy was sketchy, and Michael’s gut was leaning towards labeling him as dangerous.

“Well, all good things come to an end, huh?” Michael went with that, playing it safe.

Ray scoffed. “Yeah. So, you don't race for anyone then? Tonight was your first gig?”

“Yeah. Flyin’ solo. Just tryna make a quick buck, y’know?”

Ray nodded.

There was an odd silence.

The crowd had mostly disbanded, and all the other racers were gone in shame- it was just Michael, Ray, and their cars on the dimly lit blacktop of Davis Avenue.

“So… Who do _you_ race for?”

Ray whipped out a lighter and cigarette, lighting up and sitting on the hood of his car before answering.

“Heard of Geoff Ramsey?”

Michael did his best to keep his face from getting any paler than it already was.

Oh, he'd heard of Geoff Ramsey. Who hadn't? The rumor was he was the criminal overlord of Los Santos, with friends in so many places that he was untouchable, invisible, invincible. The police never pursued him. The judges never tried him. Hell, the garbage men picked up his trash for free- you name it, he controlled it in some way or another. The stories say he's ruthless- killed his way to the top after leaving the Army and coming here for work. He quietly rose to power in the riots of ‘94, long before Michael was here, when police attention was less focused on him- and then suddenly he was everywhere. Him and his Fake AH Crew- that's what his gang was called. Michael had heard all this on the sidewalk. Anyone who even dabbled in illegal activity knew Ramsey’s name from here to Liberty City and back.

And standing right in front of him was Ramsey’s best racer.

And Michael’s sorry ass made the mistake of pummeling this fool into the asphalt in one race, his _first_ race.

This was Not Good.

“Y-Yeah, ‘course. Who hasn't?”

Ray just nodded again.

“He's gonna be interested in seeing the person that finally beat him on the streets. He’ll wanna talk.”

Michael gulped, audibly.

 _That_ was a threat.

“Well, I hope I don't disappoint when he comes, then.”

“Me too, you're a nice kid. I'd hate to see you gone so young, and with so much potential.”

Ray stomped his cigarette into the ground and got into his car, not bothering to look at Michael again.

He sped off, and suddenly Michael was alone in South Central Los Santos, staring ahead in fear.

Now he's gone and attracted the attention of the most dangerous man in the city, the country probably, and for what? Five grand?

It wasn't worth it.

 _But the worst part is, I can't stop. I need the cash,_ he thought.

Geoff Ramsey or not, he had his own well-being along with Lindsay’s heart and his mother’s life to secure. He came to a grimly satisfying conclusion.

 _I have to keep racing_.

It was the only way. Sure, Geoff Ramsey might kill him, and sure, he could easily die behind the wheel as well, but no matter what, he had to keep racing.

He was determined.

_If I've made it this far, I can make it past all this._

But there was still the minor feeling of something bad coming from all this loitering in the back of his mind.

As he was driving back to his garage, glancing constantly at the rearview out of involuntary paranoia, there was one fact that continued to be painfully valid.

Michael was having a really bad day.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, how'd it go yesterday?”

Michael almost rolled his eyes, but he remembered Andy couldn't see him under the car.

He scooted the dolly back out from under the sports car and gave Andy his best ‘I don't give a fuck' look before grabbing wrench from his tool chest and going back to work.

“That bad?”

“Nah,” Michael grunted as he tightened a loose bolt, “not bad. Just unfortunate, I guess.”

“How so?” Andy was sitting in the driver's seat of the car parallel to Michael’s, most likely smearing the upholstery with his oily jumpsuit.

“I knocked on her door, and some guy answered. He knew who I was, told me he was Lindsay's new boyfriend, and- could you slide me the monkey wrench?- and that was that.”

“Ouch, dude. I'm sorry,” Andy said, handing Michael the tool. “That's rough.”

Michael's shrugged under the car.

“I'm pretty over it anyways.”

He rolled out on the dolly, finally done under there, and stood up. His bones cracked painfully as he stretched, and then he was wiping his hands with a rag and walking towards the office. Andy followed.

“So Michael Jones is single now? Dude, let's get your hot ass on the streets! Wanna hit up a bar or somethin’ tonight?” Andy said enthusiastically as Michael sat down at his desk.

The redhead looked up and smiled, thankful to even have Andy in the first place- but he was busy today. He told his friend as much, and Andy pouted.

“Fine. Maybe later?” Andy said over his shoulder as he clocked out for the day.

The setting sun over Hawick shone directly into the garage, making everything look orange and warm.

Michael nodded. “Maybe later.”

He did want to go out with Andy, and he did deserve to relax after all the shit with Lindsay, but he was planning on racing tonight.

It had been a month since that first Race. In the last four weeks he spent every night he possibly could on the streets. To his immense surprise, and the surprise of hundreds of racers and lowlife criminals, he won every single race he competed in.

He was good, very good it seemed, good enough to make a hundred a fifty grand in just a month- exactly the kind of cash he'd been hoping to score from this risky decision. The money went to his mother first of course, for the cancer. He managed to pay off all the treatment she’d need for the next year, and buy her a few new items for her countryside house too.

She had no idea how Michael got the money for her, and thankfully she didn't ask.

The rest of the cash had gone here.

He opened up his own garage in Hawick, right on the edge of Vinewood between the police station and the freeway. Jones’s Auto Works was a thriving business now; in just a month he had customers left and right, as if there were no mechanics in this part of the city but him. Another thing that surprised him. The last thing he'd suspected was to be so successful right away- but maybe this was God getting him back for all the hell he’d gone through.

He hired Andy, a good mechanic from the West Side, and now the two of them fixed cars and motorbikes around the clock, making a fair bit of money while doing it.

All thanks to Michael’s racing.

And all this time, the scariest (or best) thing that happened was the lack of any contact from Geoff Ramsey.

After that night with that Ray guy, Michael hardly saw him- he didn't race in any of the numerous races Michael won. If he ever appeared, he was simply parked at the finish line, waiting for Michael, and when the redhead crossed the finish line Ray would leave right away, without a word.

No one else had come in person to contact him either. No calls, texts, or emails.

Just… silence.

Michael was unsure if Geoff had forgotten all about him or didn't care, which is what he'd like to believe, or if the Fake AH Crew was just waiting for something to happen before they made a move. What that could be, he didn't know, but it had to be something.

At night, though, Geoff, the garage, Denise, and Andy were the last things on his mind.

When he was racing, there was no Michael, no life, no debt or pain- just speed.

That's all. Behind the wheel, Michael felt at one with his car, like nothing mattered but the road in front of him at that very moment. The adrenaline, the rush he got from racing, was indescribable. The heat in his blood would singe the walls of his arteries, his heart would pound, his vision would flicker.

It was addicting.

He didn't even always race for money. Sometimes it was just to race, to clear his mind, get in a zone, get something done, and feel good while doing it.

He thanked the lord everyday for his idiot brother in New Jersey, letting him race their parents’ cars.

It got him here.

“Alright, I'll see you tomorrow, boss.” Andy waved on his way out.

“Later, dude.” Michael smiled at him.

He returned to balancing the shop’s budget (don't ask where he learned) as he heard Andy’s car start up and drive away, and the sun finally set on Los Santos.

He worked diligently for a few minutes, intent on getting done and finding a Race tonight, until he was suddenly interrupted by footsteps out in the garage.

Michael assumed it was a customer who didn't read the business hours sign posted outside, and he rose from his seat to investigate.

He rounded the corner of the doorway of the office.

“Sorry bud, we’re clo-”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

A man, no older than Michael, stood in jeans and a tee, looking around the garage uncomfortably.

And he was crying.

Tears were streaming from his eyes and dripping off his face onto the floor, making his cheeks shiny and red.

“Sorry, mate, I-” he hiccuped, “I need a little help with my auto, yeah?”

_British_. Michael noted. _And attractive_ -

He crushed that thought down. He couldn't think like that, not so soon after Lindsay.

He focused more on the fact that the British dude was wracked with sobs, shuddering in the dim light of the garage.

Michael probably should have told him to just go away, we’re closed- but something about the way the boy was crying was all too familiar and tugged at his heart.

He walked over to the man and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What's wrong…?”

“Gavin. I'm Gavin.” The man managed.

“What's wrong, Gavin? Do you need me to call someone?” Michael asked.

He was actually concerned now. This guy was really shaken up by whatever happened, and it was unnerving to Michael as well.

Gavin rapidly shook his head.

“No, I-” he sobbed, “my girlfriend just dumped me. She smashed my car up a bit.”

Gavin didn't need to say anymore. Michael was all too acquainted with the way Gavin must be feeling right now.

“That fucking blows, dude. Hold on,” Michael said, and he disappeared into the office for a moment. He came back with his signature Jock Cranley jacket, the one he never went anywhere without, and draped it over Gavin’s shoulders, ushering him into the office.

“Have a seat anywhere you like. Hand me your keys, I'll pull the car in.”

Gavin nodded through sniffles and handed Michael a lone car key. Michael went out to Gavin’s car, a purple Dinka Blista compact.

It was, for lack of a better word, wrecked.

Key scratches, broken headlights, ripped leather- you name it, Gavin's ex did it to the car. It was more of a decorative problem than a job for a mechanic, but Michael wasn't about to turn the guy away.

_Nothing I can't fix._

He drove the car into the shop, into the workspace closest to the office.

_Poor guy,_ he thought.

With the car parked, he returned to the office to find Gavin huddled up in a chair, knees to his chest and face grim. The tears had stopped at least, but Gavin still seemed devastated, looking off into the distance.

“Hey. So, um, the garage is closed, but I can go get a few things from my place and have your car ready by morning, if you're willing to wait.”

Gavin looked up slowly, eyes wide.

“N-No, sir, that's fine-” he said, getting up and removing his arms from Michael’s jacket.

“Michael.”

“Michael, that's okay, you don't have to do that for me. I can come back tomorrow-” he was cut off.

“Gavin, please. It's fine. I've been where you are, believe me. I'll be back in a few, okay?”

Gavin seemed almost uncomfortable with Michael’s generosity, and no doubt curious. Michael grabbed his keys and left slowly, throwing Gavin one last look on his way out. Five minutes later he was driving towards Rancho, city lights painting the road ahead.

And he couldn't keep his mind off Gavin.

He was undoubtedly heartbroken by this whole ordeal, but Michael still thought he was a real catch.

_Like his car,_ Michael thought, _banged up on the outside but running perfectly within._

And while Michael wasn't exactly the most trusting person in the world, he couldn't help but feel like he and Gavin were… connected, in some crazy way, like he could really empathize with the boy. After all, the Brit was just like Michael had been after Lindsay, destroyed and empty.

_Any other asshole and I would've told them to fuck off_ , he thought.

He was attractive too- and yeah, maybe Michael was jumping the gun there, but it had been a whole month since Lindsay and things had to change some time.

All he knew for sure was, after seeing Gavin so broken, he definitely didn't want tonight to be the last he ever saw of the Brit. Even if just to check up on him, to make sure he's okay, just to be his friend.

_Nothing more._

He pulled into his garage and gathered the paint and kits he'd need for the upholstery repair quickly, and ten minutes later he was back in Hawick.

Michael noticed Gavin’s car was still there as he rushed into the office- only to find it empty, with a note on the desk and Gavin gone.  
  
He snatched it up.

_Michael,_

_Thank you for your generosity. I took a cab home for the night, if that's okay, and I'll come back soon to see my car. I just want to know if I can… Fix things with her, before I give up, y’know? Thanks again._

_-Gavin Free._

Michael read it in Gavin’s voice, sad and raw, and felt his heart break a little more.

He noticed that Gavin left a phone number below his signature.

Michael collapsed into the chair behind his desk, admittedly a little disappointed that Gavin was gone so soon. But he had work to do, and for some damn reason he really didn't want to let Gavin down.

The note seemed to imply that Gavin wouldn't be around in the morning to get the car, but Michael was gonna have it ready by then, just in case.

He'd have to forgo the race tonight.

________________________________________

  
Michael never made it home. The damage to Gavin’s car was a little heavier than he'd expected and he ended up having to spend the whole night in the garage.

Gavin didn't show up the following morning, which Michael assumed meant that he and his girlfriend patched things up (he ignored the tiny stab in his gut).

Michael considered calling Gavin, or texting him at least, to inform him the car was ready for pick up.

_Too weird? Too weird,_ he thought.

Andy, however, did show up that morning, not questioning the Blista that appeared overnight and getting straight to work.

Michael loved that about Andy.

The guy seemed to know Michael’s limits, what was fun and games and what was a button not to push. He knew what Michael was comfortable with, what he wasn't comfortable with, and he never asked the questions Michael didn't want him too- almost like an obedient puppy of some kind. And although he did like to fool around a lot, he worked hard, like Michael.

Michael couldn't have asked for a better employee.

He nodded his greeting as Andy came into the office to clock in.

“How was the bar?” He asked, looking up from his paperwork.

“Slow. Not much game, so I went home pretty early. How was your night?”

Michael opened his mouth to relay to Andy everything about Gavin- but for some reason his tongue caught and the words wouldn't come out.

“Pretty mellow.”

Andy just smiled and nodded, going back to the garage to finish the sports car repairs Michael had started yesterday.

The workday was slow. The two men managed to finish repairs on both of the cars they had in the shop and sent them home with happy owners, leaving two of the three garage spaces open for new customers. Only one came in, and his car was only in need of a simple touch up.

Next thing Michael knew, it was the end of the day and the sun was setting into the garage again. He'd spent the whole day secretly hoping Gavin would show up, just for the chance to see the Brit again- but he never did.

Michael slammed his car door shut with a sigh, leaning his head against the steering wheel. He felt exhausted, which was odd since the day was so lackluster.

He started the Tampa and was in the middle of his drive home through Downtown when his cell began ringing in the passenger seat. He checked the caller ID, and with a sigh, answered it.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Michael! How are you?”

“Good. Just got off work. What's up?”

“Oh that's nice. So listen, the Doc said that it's looking really good, Michael, the treatment is working. Today he told me I may be able to stop the chemo in a week or so if the cancer recedes any more than it has.”

Michael couldn't fight the smile on his face, and he didn't know why he wanted to.

“That's actually fantastic, Denise. I told you we could fight it.”

He could practically see his Mother nodding on the other end of the line.

“So, when will you come by again? I know the house is far but I'd love to see my son at some point.”

Michael’s smile slowly faded as he pulled into his garage.

“Um… Maybe tomorrow, yeah? I don't know though, things are pretty hectic at the garage.”

“Of course, honey. Just stop by when you can, okay?”

“Okay Ma. Love you,” he said.

“Love you too.”

Click.

He dumped his stuff on the chair next to his cot, sitting down and running his hands through his hair.

Visiting his mom meant casually dodging questions about his money and methods for gaining it- and meant a lot of lying to his mom, which he had no doubt she was suspicious about. She was a mom, after all, his mom.

A visit also meant Denise casually working the subject of Michael’s father into the conversation- something he was by no means ready for.

_And I never will be._

And now, with all that shit coming back to his mind, he really just wanted to sleep- but then he remembered, he had been planning to find a Race tonight. And since racing was just as effective a brainwasher for him as sleep, he quickly changed clothes into his usual black tee, blue jeans, and leather jacket and climbed into the Tampa.

As he was now all too familiar with the underground Race schedule, loose as it was, he was well aware that tonight’s starting line was in the Grove Street cul-de-sac, the beating heart of Los Santos.

He was there in ten minutes flat.

Tonight's course was pretty straightforward- out of Grove Street, it went up into Downtown, further up into Hawick, curving around Downtown Vinewood, and heading back down into South Central from the way up there.

_Nothing special._

That's what Michael thought about the race, up until he saw the car in his rearview as he was lining up.

It was one of Ramsey’s, no doubt about it. The driver was obscured of course, but the car was a different make than Ray’s- telling Michael that Ramsey was seeking new racers to challenge him.

For a moment, Michael swelled with pride- he really must be good at this if Ramsey’s on the hunt for new blood just to beat him- but then he realized that this was not a good thing. If Ramsey was trying to have Michael beat, than the easiest way would just be to kill him.

Ever since the first Race, Michael watched his back constantly in fear of Ramsey striking. Nothing ever happened, but it was better to be on guard at all times.

But if Ramsey was trying to defeat Michael, than swapping racers was likely a last resort before just completely offing him.

Michael almost shivered at the thought.

_Fuck it, though. I'm here to race. He wants a challenge, he'll get one._

Michael felt that fierce determination set in again, something he figured was probably his fatal flaw.

_Ramsey isn't gonna psych me out of anything. He doesn't control me._

He had to forget it all as a race starter lady stepped in front of the cars. Same shit, different day, and the race was on.

It started fast and deadly- Michael had never seen any of the cars he's raced with full on wreck before; generally a street racer knew how to handle himself enough to keep from dying. But the beginning of this race was wild. There was tailgating, several attempts at PIT maneuvers, and other dirty racing that he generally didn't take part in. He just tried to get up front and get away, like he always did to avoid this shit.

But Ramsey’s car seemed to have the same idea.

As they hit the Downtown sector, Michael was followed closely by second place (Ramsey of course) and third, some professional guy with a speedy little Pfister.

Michael was no idiot- he could tell something fishy was up right as the two cars began to come up to speed with him, settling on either side as they raced down a near-empty Power Street.

He looked over at third place, on his right.

Some thirty-something year old black guy with a nasty snarl, looking out of place in his small car. For some reason he nodded at Michael suddenly, and detached, giving the Tampa a meter or two of space but still keeping up his speed.

Ramsey’s car was relentless, contrarily, actually colliding with Michael’s a few times and leaving scratches on the sides. Michael was momentarily distracted by a few sparks flying up from a particularly hard collision, and he knew he'd be repairing that later on. They finally turned onto the north freeway, the last leg of the race before they returned to Grove.

Michael was unnerved, but he wasn't about to let the dirty racing stop him. As Ramsey's man continued to slam into him, he planned a quick little escape involving the handbrake and the oncoming traffic lane- but his scheme was compromised as third place returned suddenly to his right side, effectively trapping him at 90 miles per hour on a stretch of near empty freeway.

“Shit,” he cursed, looking for an out.

Third place looked over at him and nodded again, and Michael almost let go of the wheel and face-palmed, hard, when he finally realized that the guy was nodding at Ramsey's man through Michael’s car, not Michael himself.

_They're working together._

It became increasingly apparent as they put their plan into action. Up ahead was a break in the concrete freeway divider the split the road into two large traffic lanes- and at the end of the gap, a solid slab of thick concrete, a meter wide and two meters tall. And the two enemy cars managed to trap Michael between them, with the Tampa aimed right at it, at 100 miles an hour. Michael sucked in a breath at the realization.

_They're gonna kill me. They're gonna fucking slam me into this thing and kill me._

The divider was getting closer and closer with every second.

Michael was definitely a fighter, but even the strongest have to know when to quit. He found himself oddly frustrated, even angry that of all the ways to die, this would be his end. He let go of the steering wheel entirely as the slab approached, and flipped a middle finger at both of the cars on either side of him in a final display of defiance.

If he died like this, he wanted to go down as the man who fought Geoff Ramsey.

But Ramsey, it seemed, had other plans.

Just before the Tampa smashed into the concrete, Ramsey’s man relented his force on its side. All three cars suddenly veered left, and instead of Michael hitting the divider, it was third place.

The sound of metal and flesh meeting concrete at a hundred miles an hour was unbelievably sickening.

But it lasted only a second, the wreck disappearing behind them as Michael and Ramsey’s car raced on, neck and neck.

Michael would have to process what happened afterwards. Right now, he just wanted to beat this asshole.

________________________________________

He did.

Of course he did, he was Michael fucking Jones. He won by five seconds, the closest anyone has ever come to beating him.

As soon as the two cars were safely across the finish line, Michael was on his feet, hands balled up into fists on his side. No one else would have seen the attempt on his life other than him and this new guy, so he couldn't exactly start yelling in rage in front of the crowd- not without looking bat-shit crazy. He did have a reputation to sustain, after all.

So he chose to express his feelings in a much more stupid manner.

He walked up to the driver's side of Ramsey’s car, the driver still inside, and began being a total fucking dick.

“Ha, bitch! Can't beat me asshole!” He shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. “I am the champion of the streets, and there's nothing your sorry ass can do about it.”

He flipped off the window and grinned wickedly. The crowd was surprised at first, in all the races they'd seen Michael had certainly never been this full of himself. But their initial surprise faded, and then didn't mind- in fact it only seemed to fuel their excitement. A majority of them had probably won money off of Michael as well, which certainly helped the morale.

Michael had all of two seconds to celebrate with them before the man in the car was on his feet and had one gigantic hand around Michael’s throat, squeezing tightly.

Michael’s eyes went wide with the sudden lack of oxygen, and he barely registered the impact of the man hoisting him up against the wall of the nearest building.

“Listen here, you cocksure asshole. Geoff Ramsey is not pleased with this. He wanted you dead until tonight, don't ask me what made him change his mind. He-”

The man’s grip went lax as he received a call on his earpiece, and Michael slumped to the ground, gasping and coughing.

This guy is crazy, he thought, mind working again.

“What? Why? I could just- Geoff, c'mon- fine.”

Michael listened in on the conversation, still recovering from the brutal chokehold. If this guy was on a first name basis with Geoff Ramsey, then he could only be one man- Jack Pattillo, second in command of the Fake AH Crew. If Michael thought he was in deep shit after Ray, this was a whole new fucking level.

Jack seemed unsatisfied with his conversation with Ramsey, and he watched with indifference as Michael finally regained control of his senses.

“Annoying little cunt.” He said, under his breath, and Michael managed a glare.

_I'm not gonna let them see my fear,_ he thought determinedly.

“Change of plans. I was gonna take you to an alley and rip your arm off and shove it so far up your cocky ass that you tickle your own vocal chords, but the Boss wants to meet with you. Now.”

Michael’s body froze over. His stomach felt like cold steel, twisting and stabbing and reaching out to the rest of him.

_Oh fuck…_

“‘Oh fuck’ is right. If you think I'm scary,” Jack said, lifting Mihael up by the arm and dragging him towards his black car, “then you're gonna dream about Geoff for the next eternity.”

A fleeting moment of _did I say that out loud_ was quickly smashed by the immense dread coiling in Michael’s gut.

As Michael was thrust into the back seat with his hands zip tied behind his back, the least of his worries was at the front of his mind.

_What happens to my car?_

After all, it was just sitting on the street in the middle of south central, likely already being tampered with. The crowd must have seen everything, and if Michael was in Jack’s car they were probably certain that he was never coming back.

But everything was swept out of his mind as Jack started driving, and Michael could hear the funeral march in his head as they made their way across the city to meet Geoff Ramsey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of any kind makes my insides warm and fuzzy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I'm like crying??? Your responses to the last chapter were amazing and so, so inspiring, especially for a new fic writer like me! Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos :)

The ride to Geoff gave Michael an excellent opportunity to collect himself, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, it was long- Geoff must have been on the other side of the city, or farther. Michael guessed he'd been in the car for about forty five minutes when Jack informed him they were halfway there.

Secondly, Michael was blindfolded. He'd gotten a very painful punch to the stomach from Jack when he tried to resist having the black cloth wrapped around his face, so he sat in faux-darkness for the entire ride.

Lastly, the drive was dead silent. No talking, no radio, just the quiet purr of the car’s engine under Michael as he lay in the back seat. He was pretty sure that Jack wasn't even breathing.

His mind was a mess. It was like the floor of a stock market building, crowded with shouting assholes throwing their weight around.

_Jack murdered that third place guy._

He recalled as best as he could the way Jack let Michael veer at the last second, sending the Pfister head first into a thick wall of concrete at 100 miles an hour. That poor motherfucker was so dead that he probably felt himself die twice.

Then there was Geoff Ramsey, whom he was about to meet and, if he was being honest, get killed by. Deep inside he knew that this was likely his last night on earth. Geoff was no doubt as horrible as the rumors say, and Michael was stupid enough to throw himself in the crime lord’s face. Twice.

He steadily became more sure of his imminent doom.

_I never got to say bye to Ma._

The poor woman was likely never going to hear anything about him again, much less get any money for treatment. All he could do was pray that someone would have mercy on her.

And then, for some reason, Gavin Free popped into his mind.

Face drenched in tears, eyes red rimmed, body wracked with sadness- because of his girlfriend. Michael almost scoffed at the simplicity.

_How would he react if Geoff Ramsey threatened his life?_

But then again, maybe that's why the British boy was even on Michael’s mind. His purity and cleanliness, his blissful ignorance to the dirty underside of society- suddenly Michael flared up with envy. He yearned for that life he had before, a month ago- the simplicity of it, none of this terrifying Geoff nonsense. The life Gavin had now.

But that didn't matter. He was going to die.

He wasn't sure of the whole “God” thing, though he was raised Catholic, but when they arrived Jack found him praying in the backseat before roughly pulling the redhead out of the car, removing the blindfold, and cutting the zip ties around his wrists.

Michael immediately tried to figure out where he was, but of course Jack had him shoved into a doorway just seconds after Michael recognized a dark city alleyway.

_So we're still in LS…_

He tried to make sense of that long drive, why any ride would have taken that long if they were still in the city- but everything stopped as his eyes adjusted to the dim room he was in now.

It was a restaurant. Italian, judging by the smell and the decor on the walls and tables. It was closed too, all the tables and chairs empty and the kitchen in the back lit only by dull LEDs from through the windows. And in the center of it all was Geoff Ramsey.

Michael had never seen the guy before; rumors said something along the lines of “if you see his face, you're already dead”. Yet here he was, no doubt about it. In an expensive Vinewood style tuxedo with an undeniably classy handlebar mustache, the likes of which Michael had only seen on cartoon villains. He was seated at the center table, and standing behind him was Ray.

Jack brought Michael to Geoff’s table, holding the redhead firmly by the bicep, and shoved him into the seat across from Ramsey a little too forcefully.

Michael only grunted and rubbed his arm as Jack moved to stand behind his boss, on the other side of Ray. It was dead silent for a moment, and Michael noted the glass of whiskey Geoff was casually sipping from. As if he wasn't the most notorious criminal in the city and he wasn't about ready to break Michael’s neck for his minor disobedience.

Michael cleared his throat, palms sweating nervously in his lap.

Geoff snapped his fingers after a long sip, and Jack moved instantly, procuring a cream-colored folder out of nowhere and laying it on the table. Geoff flicked it open with a meaty finger.

“Michael Jones. Twenty seven years old, New Jerseyite, vanilla mechanic and, apparently, the best damn street racer in this half of the country.”

Michael swallowed. That's not at all what he expected Geoff to sound like. He was thinking a booming baritone or some sort of evil nasal laugh, not this lazy lilt with the occasional voice crack.

“Learned how to drive and fight on the East Coast, training with your brother. Moved here four years ago out of spite and anger, to start a new life.”

Michael paled at the in depth knowledge of his past, where Geoff only huffed something akin to a laugh and flipped the folder shut.

“Chose the wrong city, kid.”

Michael steeled his nerves, working up the courage to speak.

“How the fuck do you know all that shit?”

Geoff didn't answer, but Ray did.

“Sir.” The small man said quietly.

“What?” Michael snapped at him, pretending he didn't hear. Ray seemed to know that he did hear, however, and rolled his eyes agitatedly.

“Call him sir when addressing him.” Jack said sternly.

Michael opened his mouth to let out an eloquent _fuck that_ , but he figured it would probably be best to prolong his demise rather than instigate it. He held his tongue.

“How do you know all that, sir?”

Geoff took another sip and eyed him analytically.

“I have my ways. Anyways,” he said, knocking back the remaining whiskey and pointing to Ray, “My men say that your racing skills are fucking amazing.”

By now Michael was definitely startled by the ease of the man’s voice, his eyes widening as he answered.

“I don't know about that, sir. I just want to make some money. I don't even do it as much as I did a few weeks ago.”

Geoff nodded. “Seems like you’ve made a pretty penny in the last few weeks.”

Michael nodded, breath quickening.

“I like pretty pennies.” Geoff said, and he sounded much like a child trying to trick his mother into giving him a cookie.

Michael hesitated. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

“Look, sir. Just a few more races, and then I'll be out your hair for good. I may not even win them all, y’know? This could just be luck.”

“Then you're the luckiest asshole in the world. That's not gonna fly, kid. You win a lot more money when you're affiliated with someone, y’know.” Geoff cocked his head to the side.

Michael shifted nervously in his seat, knowing full well what that meant.

“I don't follow, sir.” He said simply.

Geoff sighed through his nose, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward.

“I'm trying to offer you a job, here, numbnuts.”

Michael, even though he'd seen it coming, felt his blood run cold. A job offer from Geoff Ramsey, like this was some cliche Vinewood flick and Michael was the star. Geoff was scary, sure, and powerful beyond imagination for a guy like Michael. When it came to a person like Geoff, it was a lot smarter to be on his side rather than looking over your shoulder all your life.

But then another thought came to Michael.

“How much?” He asked, tacking on a quiet “sir?” a beat after.

Geoff seemed to know what he meant immediately, answering with that easy bravado, “Every race you win is fifty grand from me, and whatever the race’s prize is as well.”

Michael whistled lowly.

_That's a lot of fuckin’ money._

Even at the rate he's going now, if he made that kinda cash every race he'd be set for life within a year.

He had to admit- it was really tempting.

“So, if I race for like a year or so, I'll have enough to go wherever I want, do whatever I want.” He thought out loud, really, but the room heard him and Jack snickered. Michael looked up in confusion, until Geoff offered an explanation with the smallest smile on his face.

“It doesn't work that way, kid.”

Michael looked even more lost.

Geoff sighed. “You'll be working for me, Michael. You race in the races I tell you, as often as I want, and you'll drive exactly how I tell you. You don't even shift gears without me knowing. You don't stop until I say you stop.”

Michael eyed him curiously. Jack must have been laughing at his naivety before, but could anyone blame him? He thought racing for Geoff Ramsey meant racing with a name over him, almost like a sponsorship- he didn't think it meant being an urban slave. He thought he was selling his skills, not his soul.

He looked up at the three men.

Ray was agitated, but in a ‘say yes so I can leave already’ way. He had a cigarette in his hand but it wasn't lit.

Jack seemed unhappy that Geoff was offering the job. He probably did that to every prospective member though, for intimidation purposes.

Geoff seemed content. Smug even, judging by that ghost of a smirk playing on his lips as he poured himself another glass of Jack Daniel’s.

“What if I say no?” Michael found himself blurting out.

Geoff observed him for a moment. “Then you go home, think on it, and I slowly tear apart everything you've ever loved or cared about until you come crawling back with the right answer.”

Michael was shocked at how easily Geoff threw the heavy threat at him, like he rehearsed it every day.

“Geoff Ramsey always gets what he wants,” came Jack’s voice.

“And I want your skills under my name. Think about it kid- the money, the fame, the glory. You'll be remembered forever on the streets of LS.” Geoff added.

That constant undercurrent of fear Michael had been sporting in the bottom of his stomach amplified. On one side, Geoff’s offer was tempting. The money sounded nice, and a little reputation never hurt anyone.

Yeah, a lot of good comes out of that.

And besides, Geoff’s threat was definitely not a bluff, Michael had no doubt that Geoff had the power to ruin everything he's worked for, the whole reason he's even here now. And that’s not something he wants to see come undone.

So it's settled, then.

It was better to be safe than sorry, so taking what Geoff threw at him in stride was the best option.

But just as he opened his mouth to give the affirmative, to sign himself up for eternal damnation- golden brown hair and a large nose exploded into his mind for the second time that night.

_Gavin Free._

_If I take this deal, I can never see him again._

He couldn't risk bringing Gavin down with him, into this shit. Not if he joined. Gavin was so pure, and Michael didn't want to be the one to corrupt, to ruin him.

He thought of a purple Dinka Blista Compact, still sitting in his garage, perfectly repaired. And the way he waited for Gavin to return, spent hours on the car just to see him smile, to make him forget all that pain- yeah, something told Michael he couldn't miss out on that. Not yet.

And then his mother- would he be able to talk to her? Visit her? Find time and space to get her the things she needs? It seemed unlikely. Running under a modern day Al Capone was like a death sentence for any kind of personal life; like Geoff said, Michael couldn't even start his car without the Boss knowing.

And yeah, he was scared, and yeah, another act of defiance toward Ramsey would only agitate those threats he'd spat out earlier- but Michael was pretty sure he could take it. He'd faced Ray, and Jack, and he was steadily becoming more sure that he could face anything Geoff threw at him.

_This is either the best thing I've ever done, or the fucking dumbest._

“I… I can't.”

Geoff’s tiny smirk disappeared immediately as he stared into his emptied glass, and the way Jack and Ray sucked in their breath loudly was almost comical.

“What did you just say?”

Michael almost took his words back at the sinister tone of Geoff’s voice. That lazy lilt? Gone.

“I… I'm sorry.” Michael said, slowly finding his confidence. “I have people who rely on me, who need me. I can't afford to become a glorified slave.”

And sure, maybe that wasn't all true, but saying it helped Michael in steeling his resolve even further as he stood up from his seat.

“I can't and won't join your crew.”

It was silent for a moment, Jack and Ray looking at Michael like he was a crazy hobo from Mission Row. Then Geoff stood up, crossing his arms and looking at Michael with electric anger in his blue eyes.

“Listen here, kid. I don't think you heard well enough earlier,” the crime lord said lowly, “I will end you if you say no again. I want you in.”

He leaned closer to Michael, bending over slightly and putting his hands on the table. His eyes said _challenge me._

Michael was pretty sure he'd never been more scared of anything than Geoff Ramsey. He wanted to relent, to sit down and nod silently- but that fire burned inside him, that fighting spirit that's kept him going all this time- it wouldn't stop. And suddenly he knew what he had to do.

“You heard me, old man.” He said, putting on a snarl to rival Geoff’s.

He felt himself weaken as Geoff’s thick hand wrapped itself around his neck.

“I should slaughter you right where you stand,” Geoff said, voice rumbling like thunder, “but I'm feeling merciful. Last chance, Jones.”

Michael knew even if he took this out Geoff was giving him, all his defiance would add up eventually- he'd always be on Geoff’s bad side after tonight.

“You don't own me. You'll never own me.” he spat.

Geoff pushed outwards and let go, sending the redhead stumbling backwards into the table behind him.

“Ray. Get him outta my sight.”

Ray obeyed without hesitance, picking Michael up and dragging him out the same door Jack had brought him in. In the alley, Michael turned to face Ray with wild eyes, his chest heaving.

“I had to say no, Ray. Surely you understand. Don't you remember what life was like before this? Friends? Family?” Michael pleaded, desperate for some kind of emotional response.

Ray contemplated for a second, and Michael could swear he saw an ounce of sorrow and regret in his eyes- but Ray only shook his head.

“Geoff Ramsey always gets what he wants.”

Suddenly he had a heavy baton ( _where did that come from?_ ) and Michael was unconscious with one swift blow.

________________________________________

Michael awoke four hours later, in his auto shop, just as mid morning settled in. Whoever left him here, most likely Ray, must've put in a lot of work. He was sitting in his office chair with his head on his desk, almost as if he had dreamt the whole meeting with Geoff. But he checked the mirror of the employee bathroom, and the bump on his forehead and the faint fingerprint bruises on his neckline told him otherwise.

He washed his face and left the office to find the Tampa parked in an empty garage spot- just on the other side of Gavin’s purple Blista. The car was still there, mocking him.

“Shit…” He breathed.

Has Gavin spent the last day walking everywhere?

He felt a surge of guilt as he found his phone in his pocket as he ran to the office to get Gavin’s note, and five seconds later the line was ringing.

“Hello?”

“Gavin Free?”

“This is him.”

“This is Michael Jones, from Jones’s Auto Works. I just wanted to let you know that your car is ready for pickup.”

“Oh! Michael! I'll be right over. Thanks for the call!”

Gavin hung up and Michael found himself smiling at the fact that Gavin remembered him, despite everything.

He had the sudden urge to see Gavin again anyways. He needed someone, someone clean and unaware of the dangers that walk the streets every night- someone to clear his conscience.

He was already feeling better by the time Gavin’s cab rolled up to the garage. The lanky man exited (fell out of) the vehicle and jogged towards his car happily.

“Michael! This is amazing! It looks brand new!” Gavin exclaimed, hands running out to palm over the car.

“It's nothing, just a touch up.” Michael said.

He had a rag in his hands and was twisting it nervously, and Gavin seemed to notice.

“Really, Michael. You're very good at what you do.”

He smiled at the redhead in earnest, and Michael cursed the way his face began to heat up at finally seeing that brilliant smile.

 _I knew he'd be this pretty,_ was the first thing in his head.

“Thanks, Gavin. It's...uh… not really-”

“Nonsense,” Gavin said, walking up to Michael and extending his hand.

Michael shook it slowly, not wanting to let go of those wonderfully soft hands.

“How much do I owe you?” Gavin asked after a moment, reaching for his wallet.

Michael snapped himself out of his stupid lovestruck trance to answer.

_Stop acting like a schoolgirl. Four hours ago you had an audience with Geoff Ramsey and now a customer has got you blushing like a rose. Get a grip, Jones._

“No!” He said, and Gavin looked startled by the sudden change in volume as he sifted in his wallet for money. “It's on the house.”

Gavin looked up at him again, mouth open in awe. “What? No, no Michael- I insist, it's only right that I-”

“Really, Gav, it's fine.” Michael said, smiling confidently and placing a hand on Gavin’s shoulder.

“Oh… Okay.” Gavin said, uneasily stowing his wallet away. “So how do I pay you back for this beautiful service you've done me?” He gestured to the car.

Michael only smiled brighter, because what his brain supplied as a response was an awful idea. But he really did want a friend, and a way to get out of his thoughts about Ramsey. And let's be real, he was gonna do it eventually after that first meeting with Gavin.

“How about you let me take you to brunch?” Michael said, leaning an arm on the roof of the car.

If Gavin was surprised, he really didn't want Michael to know it. He only shook his head furiously.

“No.” He stated, and Michael almost deflated.

_You came on too strong. Smooth, idiot, you-_

“But I'll be happy to take you out to brunch.” Gavin’s words stopped his mind dead.

And then he was smiling and nodding like an idiot.

“Come on then,” Gavin laughed, getting in his car. “I know a great spot across the freeway.”

________________________________________

  
Gavin demanded they try a little bistro in East Vinewood- near his apartment, he'd explained- and now the two men were delightedly stuffing their faces with what Michael decided was fucking great food.

“So, Gavin,” he said, swallowing a bite of ham and cheese omelet, “what do you do?”

“Oh, I work at IT on campus at ULSA.”

“You're a student, then?”

“No no, just a job. I was at the corporate HQ for Binco’s before this gig.”

Michael nodded, taking a sip of orange juice. The mid-morning sun shone directly onto their little patio table, and the quiet of East Vinewood seemed to complete the peaceful picture- if, y’know, Michael wasn't involved with a dangerous kingpin and all.

“So do you do anything else, besides the garage thing? Or is that a full time deal?” Gavin asked after a bite.

Michael only laughed and shook his head in response.

They spent the rest of their meal getting to know each other, and Michael felt himself slipping as he noticed they Gavin’s hair sparkled in the sunlight, or the way his eyes lit up when talking about slow motion, or how his smile could dazzle Michael into the fifth dimension-

_You're falling._

But he couldn't help it. The entire meal he felt his insides buzzing with that excitement you have when you meet someone new, someone you really like- and Michael hadn't felt that since Lindsay and he first started dating, a little over three years ago. And Gavin was funny and awesome and made Michael’s stomach do little flips when he said his name like that ( _Micool, Micool_ ). And Michael should have what he wants; he deserves it, doesn't he?

Later on they're walking through the park across the street from the bistro, talking and laughing, and that's when Michael brings it up. He _had_ too. The nagging uncertainty in his brain would surely have unraveled him if he didn't.

“So, how did things turn out with your girlfriend?” It was silent for a few beats, and Michael gulped when he noticed Gavin’s smile had vanished.

“Meg? Not very well. She dumped me, ruined my car, and when I tried to talk with her she yelled and screamed until the neighbors called the police. I don't even know what I did.” Gavin was looking down as he walked, and he drifted closer to Michael subconsciously.

“I'm really sorry, Gavin. You don't deserve that. I wish things had worked out.” Michael offered, wishing he could find something less cheesy to say.

Gavin only shook his head calmly. “Meg and I? That's over now. We were never very good for each other in the first place. If I can remember that, I can move on.” He looked at Michael with a small smile, and Michael returned it, giving the Brit a comforting squeeze on the arm.

“That's a good mindset to have. When Lindsay dumped me last month, I was a mess. I was angry and hurt and I took it out on my friends, my mom- it was bad. You're doing so well after just a few days- I wish I could have had the strength you do.”

Gavin only smiled brighter at that, and Michael felt his cheeks burn red when Gavin’s fingers slipped into his, squeezing for a moment before letting go. Michael missed the contact as soon as it was gone.

“Thanks, Michael. This was a great time. You're a lot of fun to talk to.”

Michael hadn't even noticed they'd walked all the way back to the bistro and were stopped in front of Gavin’s car.

“Y-Yeah, of course. I had fun, too.” He said, eyes searching Gavin’s face for… _what? Feelings? Love?_

“I'll text you, so we can do this again.” Gavin said. “Oh, do you need a ride back to your garage?”

Every part of Michael screamed yes, anything for a little more time with this wonderful British ball of sunshine- but he found himself shaking his head.

“No, I'll call a cab. Thanks though.”

“Okay. Bye, Michael.” Gavin said.

Michael nodded slowly and stepped back as Gavin got into his car and drove off with one more small wave.

“Bye, Gavin…” He whispered, waving back.

________________________________________

The night found Michael in his apartment space, curled up on his cot to keep warm. He was still smiling, pretty sure his face was stuck like that anyways, because despite everything, the racing and danger and Geoff fucking Ramsey- despite all that, Michael’s time with Gavin had lifted his spirits.

_Should Gavin’s light really weigh out the darkness of Geoff’s threats?_

He thought of Geoff’s snarl, then Gavin’s smile.

He thought of Jack’s rough hand around his neck, then Gavin’s slender fingers in his for the briefest moment.

He thought of Ray’s eyes, bored and dull, then Gavin’s sea green irises exploding with excitement and happiness, even after what the poor Brit has been through.

_It can. It should._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, this fic is looking like it'll be 8 chapters in total. I have a few (unrelated) one shots written as well, but I don't know if I want to post them before I finish this story. I'll figure it out. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im baaAAAAaaack
> 
> But seriously, school has been pounding my ass so it took a little time to get this chapter out. It's a little shorter than usual, so I apologize for that. As always, thanks for the kind comments and kudos.
> 
> Enjoy!

Michael drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he turned it, driving down Bridge Street. He scanned the apartment buildings closely until he found Gavin’s, jammed between a different complex on the left and a small house on the right. He parked on the curb and waited, grounding himself.

“Relax Jones. Just go in there, hang out for a while, then head to work.” He whispered, desperate to calm the slight tremors in his voice.

Work had been slow for the past few days, anyways- not that Michael really needed the money anymore. Andy had a second job, so when he wasn't at the garage he was still supporting himself just fine.

Or at least that’s what Michael told himself to make himself feel better about leaving Andy to work the garage alone for a week.

He shook the thoughts away and got out of his car. He locked the door and texted Gavin a quick “I'm here” before jogging across the street. The Brit was waiting for him on the stairs inside the building, sunny smile and all.

Michael felt his attitude literally _purify_ at the sight of that fucking grin.

The two just stared at each other in the empty foyer for a minute.

Then, a tentative “Hi, Michael.”

“Hello, Gavin,” Michael said, rolling his eyes. “You gonna take me up to your apartment, or would you rather stare at me like a shy four year old?”

Gavin just giggled before turning and running up the stairs. “C’mon, Michael! My flat’s on the top floor.”

“Fucking kill me.” Michael said, starting to climb up.

Gavin’s apartment was cozy. That was really the best word for it. Clean enough to not be messy, though messy enough to not be clean; it was quite fitting for Gavin’s persona, if the past seven days with the Brit were anything to go by. It was a simple set-up: a living room and kitchenette, then a bedroom with a bathroom. The whole place smelt of Gavin’s cologne and fresh linen, a nice break from the exhaust-and-motor-oil scent Michael normally inhaled.

Gavin flopped down onto the couch, gesturing to his TV. Michael sat down on the other side of him, observing Gavin’s stacks of video games.

“You play?” He asked, picking up a controller from the coffee table.

“When I can, Gavin shrugged, slipping his shoes off.

Michael followed suit before turning the Xbox on.

“Do you play?” Gavin asked, watching Michael load up Titanfall.

“I've never owned a console of my own, but I played a lot as a kid. I'm also friends with the people at the game store near me, so they hook me up sometimes.” Michael said.

“But you don't have an Xbox?” Gavin said, and Michael could see the ‘why not?’ burning in Gavin’s eyes.

“Can't afford it.” Michael said. His attention shifted to the screen as a match of Attrition began.

Gavin shifted so his back was up against the armrest of the couch, feet just a few inches from Michael.

Michael had a feeling that that gap would start closing pretty soon.

________________________________________

In all the times Michael had hung out with Gavin in the past week since his meeting with Geoff, he realized halfway through his second match, he had never gotten drunk with him once.

And Michael _always_ got drunk with his friends.

Ask Andy, Michael’s rite of passage for friendship is six shots of tequila and some salt on the tongue. He told Gavin this, and Gavin solved the problem by getting up and retrieving a bottle of Jack and some cola in two cups from the kitchen.

“This is an awful idea.” Michael said, a glass in hand.

Gavin laughed, taking a long sip. “You were the one who proposed the bevs.”

“Yeah, but… You're probably like, three times more annoying and stupid when you're drunk, right?”

Gavin smiled, watching Michael eliminate another enemy Titan. “You'll have to find out, won't you?”

An hour later, Gavin’s long legs are splayed across Michael’s lap as the Brit plays Minecraft. Michael is looking on drunkenly, knowing damn well he isn't going back to the garage tonight.

“Why do the green things explode again?” Michael asked, hand subconsciously moving to rest on Gavin’s ankle.

“I don't know whyyy Michaellll,” Gavin said, purposely drawing the words out.

Michael just huffed in response, removing his hand from Gavin’s leg to cross his arms across his chest.

Even with the buzz he's feeling, his mind’s eye still manages to see that sneer, the too-perfect teeth just under the well-kept handlebar mustache. Those dangerous blue eyes, alight with irritation and _superiority, like he's so much fucking better than me-_

“Michael?” Gavin asked, and the redhead’s eyes snapped open.

“What?” He asked, sounding more irritated than he wanted to.

“Nothing. You're just squeezing my ankle really hard.” Gavin said, quickly returning to building his castle.

Michael released his grip instantly, wanting to apologize for letting Geoff get the best of him even when he was here. Absolutely safe, having a great time with his new best friend. The only way this could get any better was with more alcohol.

“Sorry, my bad. Got anymore booze?” Michael asked, rubbing his fingers soothingly over where he had clenched Gavin.

“Mmhmm…” Gavin said, trailing off as he closed his eyes.

Michael was about to ask why Gavin looked like he was about to have a fucking orgasm, until he realized that it was his little impromptu massage making Gavin feel so good.

“Jesus, you're like a fucking cat or something.” Michael said, but he increased the pressure on Gavin’s leg and began to rub in little circles.

Gavin, like an asshole, fucking purred just to make the comparison complete, and Michael felt a blush coming on. One week and things were already getting intimate. Drunken-foot-rub-on-the-couch intimate.

Gavin shifted away from the armrest, patting the cushion behind him. Michael got the hint and moved to follow.

_You've got it so fucking bad_ , was all Michael could think as he got behind Gavin to begin massaging his shoulders and back. A few minutes in and Gavin was leaning into him, letting out soft puffs of air every few seconds to remind Michael that _yes, this is the beginning of a fucking porno._

Minecraft was forgotten as Gavin let out a slurred groan, and Michael was losing it. He really should not feel that familiar stirring in his belly, the tinges of arousal that danced down his spine at Gavin’s every noise.

_I should be the one getting the erotic massage_ , he thought, _facing an sinister crime lord every day and all._

Gavin let out a breathier noise, and at this point it was obvious he was being a cocktease. Or was Michael just drunk, and reading it all wrong?

“Your muscles are really tight back here,” he said lowly, because if Gavin was gonna play this game then so would he.

“Hunched over a computer all day,” was all Gavin offered, hands finding Michael’s leg and tugging on it.

Michael understood the meaning and immediately thought against it, knowing for a fact that if Gavin sat between his legs, the Brit would feel his embarrassingly growing hard-on. But he moved anyways, letting Gavin lean back against his chest with the Brit’s lower back hovering just above Michael’s crotch.

_Okay, just keep him here and he won't feel your boner- what is this, fucking eighth grade?_

Gavin let out a louder groan when Michael dug his thumb into a tight spot just below the shoulder blade- and Michael felt his arms weaken, and that was it.

Gavin fell flush against him, head knocking against Michael’s collar bone and _yep, he feels it, he definitely feels it._

Michael’s hands were limply draped over Gavin’s chest now as the Brit sat still for a moment.

“That was lovely, Michael.” Gavin said, voice dangerously close to another purr.

Michael only hummed in response, because seriously- his fucking dick was so hard Gavin could probably feel his goddamn pulse.

“Your turn?” The Brit said, and Michael was surprised.

The Brit didn't really wait for an answer though, getting up and pushing Michael to lay on his stomach across the couch. Michael certainly didn't protest against any method to hide his crotch from Gavin. The Brit leaned his weight onto one knee that was rested between Michael’s legs before bringing his hands to slowly massage the redhead’s lower back.

“Fuck, Michael, you're bloody _tight_.” Gavin grit out, and Michael’s imagination jumped to an entirely different scenario where those words would apply. But Gavin was fucking with him now, right? The dirty talk and back massages were just a product of two drunk, broken-hearted idiots with nothing to lose.

Right?

The Brit worked his hands lower, to where his thumbs were on Michael’s hot skin, between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans.

Michael was pretty sure he would have come in his pants if he'd had an ounce less of self control when Gavin flicked his shirt up with one fluid movement, massaging the skin under the fabric with his warm hands.

_God, this is so fucking hot_ , Michael thought shamefully.

It was likely that his muscles were actually quite compressed, considering all the stress he'd been under in the last month or so.

_Maybe that’s it, it just feels so fucking good because I actually do need a massage. Or does it feel so good because it's Gavin?_

The Brit teased the pad of one of his thumbs just below Michael’s waistline, under the thin elastic band at the top of his boxers.

Michael flatout moaned then, squeezing the cushions under his hands and trying _desperately_ not to fuck into the couch like a whore.

_Definitely Gavin._

The Brit gave his back one final squeeze and palmed over all the pale skin before stopping the massage suddenly, deciding that that was enough. He lowered Michael’s shirt across his back again. Michael didn't move, well aware that flipping over would reveal his painfully hard cock to the whole goddamn apartment.

“That was… nice.” Gavin said. “I'm gonna head off to bed. You can crash there if you want, Michael.”

Michael cursed all stupid Brits with big noses and talented hands and sexy voices before muttering a strained “as if I have a choice.”

He could _feel_ Gavin’s satisfied smirk. The Brit moved to the recliner, grabbing the thin shawl that was draped over the back of the chair and tossing it over Michael haphazardly. He quietly moved into his bedroom then, leaving Michael to wallow in his own fucking sexually frustrated misery like the tease he was.

“Kill me.” Michael said, still lying face down on the couch and wanting nothing more than to follow Gavin into the bedroom and fuck him blind.

He did his best to cool down before adjusting the blanket and rolling onto his side. He waited until he finally rid himself the thoughts of Gavin panting and moaning into a pillow before trying to get some sleep. His last sight was the clock, displaying a neon green 3:13 AM, and his last thought was of falling down next to Gavin in bed.

________________________________________

Morning came, and Michael was woken up by the pleasant smell of eggs and bacon wafting through the apartment. He sat up on the couch and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wishing he could lay back down and sleep on Gavin’s couch forever- but he did have to go home eventually, and he needed to check in with Andy at the shop.

But damn, if those eggs didn't smell good.

Gavin was scooping the food onto two plates when Michael peeked over the couch to look at him. The sunlight was filtering through his hair like it does through trees, and he was clad in nothing but boxers and an old shirt- basically, Michael woke up in every cliche ever, except in this one he and Gavin weren't actually in any way involved. Not yet.

_Don't think like that._

He reminded himself of what he'd promised the night he first met Gavin- _be his friend, nothing more. Not unless he starts it, when he's ready._

Gavin walked into the living room, balancing the two plates in either hand. He sat on the couch with a smile, placing the food down on the coffee table.

“Look who’s up! Rise and shine, Michael.” He said, then rather ungracefully stuffed his face with eggs.

Michael laughed a little before grabbing his plate. “Thanks, idiot.” He said.

They ate in silence. Gavin was cross legged on the couch, body facing Michael, while Michael sat normally with his plate in his lap.

Gavin finished first, letting out a small burp and setting his plate down on the table.

“What d’you wanna do today, Michael? Bowling? Ice cream? The beach? I've always wanted-”

“Shit!” Michael said through a mouthful of bacon, glancing at the clock on the wall. He swallowed and all but dropped his plate on the table with a clatter. “You didn't tell me it was eleven o'clock in the fucking morning, Gavin!”

“It matters?” Gavin asked, curious.

“Yes it fucking matters, I have a job, y’know! And don't you? It's…” he trailed off in sudden realization.

“Sunday, you bloody mong.” Gavin finished for him, crossing his arms triumphantly.

Michael started to sit back down in relief, ready to comment about Gavin still being an idiot- but he stopped himself. He was an adult, after all, with adult responsibilities.

“I still have to go though. At the very least, I need to check in at the garage.”

“Fine,” Gavin said, sticking out his lip in a small pout, “but you owe me some more time to hang out, then.” He stood up and followed Michael to the door, where the redhead had already donned his jacket.

Michael opened the door to the apartment with a little too much force.

“Deal,” he said. Then, without thinking-

“Bye, babe.” And he kissed Gavin on the cheek.

He was already down a flight of stairs before he realized his mistake, but by that point Gavin had shut the door with the most comically furious blush ever seen.

_What the fuck is wrong with you?!?_

Michael beat himself up as he sat in his car across the street. His fucking muscle memory got the best of him- the only time he ever left someone's house in a rush like that was whenever he left Lindsay’s place back when they were together. He'd always shove off in a hurry with a pet name and a kiss on the cheek, because that's what a good boyfriend does, right?

_You're not Gavin’s boyfriend._

He had to remind himself of that all the time, constantly kicking himself in the ass. He didn't even get a chance to see Gavin’s face, much less hear what he had to say.

“God, you're an idiot.” He said, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel.

His mind betrayed him, though, because after all, _Gavin seemed to like the massage I gave him last night. And he touched me all intimate like that, and the tone in his voice when he was talking- maybe he wants me just as much as I want him._

He started the car and began driving towards the garage, passing Gavin’s purple Blista as he U-turned.

_If he wants anything, he has to make the first move. I'm not gonna push him, not so soon after Meg._

He rooted himself there, on that train of thought. All he had to do was control himself. He could do that, right?

His mind betrayed him again.

_Easier said than done._

________________________________________

  
As Michael suspected, the garage was empty when he arrived. No customers, and definitely no Andy.

_I'll be back tomorrow_ , he thought.

He was halfway home when he saw his phone light up with a text message in the passenger seat.

**Gavin Free:** sleepover tomorrow night, boi?

So clearly Gavin wasn't scared off by Michael’s brash display of affection, meaning Michael could sigh in relief. He responded, praying that Gavin would never bring up the kiss (or that entire night in general) ever again.

**Michael Jones:** ye boi

He tossed the phone back to the seat as he turned onto Innocence Blvd, where his garage was waiting a few blocks down.

Before he was even close, Michael knew something was wrong.

Like a bad omen or some voodoo magic shit, the world around Michael was dark and twisted in some way. The streets were empty, void of all life including stray animals or even a car parked on the side of the road. It was normal to see plenty of crackheads or gangbangers around the block, but the whole neighborhood was empty, like a ghost town. Michael’s hair stood up on end as he pulled up to his garage door.

He opened it with the little remote in his car, and it suddenly became very clear why everyone was indoors for the evening.

A man in a black and blue leather jacket, six feet tall at least, was standing in the middle of the garage, darkening the space considerably.

And he was wearing a black skull mask.

_Holy shit._

Michael parked the car in the garage and got out slowly as the large door closed behind him, trapping him in the same room as the fucking Vagabond.

“I know you.” Michael said, voice shaky.

_I can't believe he works for Geoff._

But he shouldn't be surprised, right? The Vagabond, the Mad Mercenary, the Black Skull- under Geoff Ramsey’s thumb, like everyone else in this godforsaken city.

Whispers of the Vagabond have echoed across Los Santos for years. The slightly-psychotic super-weapon murderer with nothing to lose, a man carefully walking the line between crazy serial killer and extraordinarily skilled assassin. Even Michael heard whispers of a man like that, a man in an entirely different circle than innocent street racing. But that didn't matter.

Geoff Ramsey had a finger on every string of the marionette of Los Santos crime, so Michael really shouldn't be surprised.

But the Vagabond is here, staring him down with cold grey eyes in the middle of his home.

“Do you?” The Vagabond said, and his voice sounded like a bat out of hell.

Michael noted the voice changer strapped around his neck, almost hidden by the collar of his leather jacket.

“The Vagabond, who doesn't know you?” Michael said, trying desperately not to quiver in fear as the killer drew a gun from his belt, pointing it at Michael nonchalantly.

“You'd be surprised. Now, where do you want it?”  
That awfully distorted voice seemed to shake the whole room as the killer got down to business.

Michael looked at him confusedly when he registered the question, and the Vagabond managed to sigh exasperatedly.

“The bullet Ramsey told me to put in you. Where do you want it?” He walked up to Michael and swiftly pointed the barrel of the gun at Michael’s head.

Michael recoiled in fear, but the Mercenary grabbed his arm with his free hand and held him there.

“The head, quick and painless? Though horribly messy…” He said. “Ramsey told me to keep you alive though, so how about here? That fleshy spot between the shoulder and collar? You'll never hold anything straight after that.” He jammed the gun there forcefully, and Michael stiffened. “Maybe the hip bone, causing unbelievable pain and ensuring the need for a transplant. Or the spine, so you can never walk again.”

He shoved the hand gun in all the places he listed, Michael freezing in anticipation each time.

“J-Just do it already, motherfucker!” Michael yelled, aiming for defiant but landing more terrified. Though he grabbed the barrel of the gun with a shaky hand and shoved it against his own forehead, holding a breath when he heard the Vagabond flick the safety off.

There was silence for a very tense moment, and then the Vagabond laughed.

He fucking _chuckled_ , sounding even more like a demon with that thing around his neck.

“I like you kid. I see what Ramsey sees in you.” He put the gun away all of the sudden, and Michael let out a huge breath.

_What is happening in my life?_

“Just join the crew, and guys like me will stop showing up.” He said seriously.

Michael’s head snapped back to eye level at that, because _really? Another fucking recruitment ruse?_

Fuck fear, he was fucking mad now. Ramsey was playing games with him, trying to psych him out with lies and threats and deceit-

“Ramsey is a fat fucking snake, and I'll be damned to join his band of roadies. He doesn't own everyone.” Michael stated, anger fringing his voice as the shakiness dissipated.

“That's where you're wrong, kid.” Vagabond said, moving towards the door. He waited a minute, tossing a look over his shoulder, eyes grey and deadly in his mask.

“Geoff Ramsey always gets what he wants. You and your little boyfriend better watch your backs.”

And then he was gone.

Michael paled at the mention of Gavin, and he stood for a moment in the middle of his garage, where the _actual_ most dangerous man in the city had just stood. Most people who saw his face never lived to tell the tale, but here Michael was.

Continuing to anger Geoff Ramsey and throw himself deeper into danger.

But word would get around. The people on the streets, those who'd disappeared tonight- they'd see him tomorrow and tell everyone that he saw the Vagabond and lived.

Who needs Geoff when Michael can make a name for himself all on his own?

He moved to his bed, reaching under the mattress and pulling out the gun he'd taken from his brother when he left Jersey.

_Gonna need this,_ he thought. He stuffed it in his belt after making sure the safety was off, and lay down on his cot.

_Geoff sent the Vagabond for me. Just to tell me to join or die._

Michael wanted to scoff as he turned the lights off from bed.

_Geoff Ramsey doesn't own me. He'll never own me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh I have no idea what my characters are doing anymore I just let them take me
> 
> On that note, were bumping up the rating next chapter for my first attempt at smut, so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
